


Dragonsong

by preraphhobbit



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Multi, Post-Canon Fix-It, Slow Burn, and pulling aspects from the books that would have made the last few seasons peak cinema, and that's what i'm doing, rewriting all of season 7 and 8, season 8 fix-it, so basically what i'm thinking of was like, ssssssssslow burn, this is all to come, written in the style of ASOIAF
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-12 13:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19229731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preraphhobbit/pseuds/preraphhobbit
Summary: "...she listens to the night echo with dragonsong."//The world is changing. The dragon queen and her long-lost nephew, thought dead, arrive at Dragonstone. In the North, a bastard has become king. A little bird sharpens her claws. A dog sheds his skin and pledges himself a vengeful wolf. A lioness bides her time. And beyond-the-Wall, the dead are walking.//Season 7/8 Fix-it fic. Mostly show canon with elements (Young Griff and Lady Stoneheart) from the books. Some show canon will remain the same, but most probably won't.





	1. Prologue I: The Riverlands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm going to be posting two prologue chapters to set up the rest of the series- the first to clarify what's happening in westeros, the second to set up daenerys' storyline. the prologues are set at least a few months before the main narrative, so hopefully it won't be too jarring once we get into the POV chapters.

The Brotherhood brings the boy, called Ondrew, before their leader. Torches set in the earth burn bright in the fading darkness of near morning. They have bound his arms with rope and stuffed a dirty rag behind his teeth, and his fear lays on him so heavy he can hardly walk beneath it. Stumbles with every step until his captors haul him upright again and set him on his feet. In the darkness ahead of him- terror.

The truth of it was, he had been riding for Riverrun under Lannister banners, all the way from King’s Landing, and not a soul had dared question them. Had grown arrogant at that, being a queen’s man. A rare thing for a boy from Flea Bottom. He’d seen the Lannister soldiers, gorgeous in their red and gold armour, since boyhood up- and gods knew he’d had a good place to watch them, stirring pots of brown all day. His aunts and one-eyed uncle decided what went into it, and he’d stirred it. Hadn't gotten the thick, promised arms from wielding that ladle either. 

“Stirring brown’s good and honest,” his aunt, the fatter of the two, had told him when he first voiced his desire to be a soldier. “You won’t get killed stirring brown.”

“You won’t get much else,” he’d muttered. Knew her well enough to duck away from the smack of her fleshy hand on the back of his head.

“You get a full belly and a roof overhead, ungrateful boy.”

“Don’t you ever want somethin’ more ‘en that, aunt?” He had never been beyond the walls of King’s Landing, but he’d heard stories- of the soft hills of the Reach, the deserts of Dorne, the wild north, the wilder Land-beyond-the-Wall. The most excitement he’d seen in his life was when they cut off the king’s head. He’d been in the crowd that day, close enough to feel the spray of Stark blood on his cheek.

“You start wishing for things, boy, and that’ll get you in a heap of trouble,” his aunt had told him. Nonetheless had gone to the captain of the city guard and declared he wished to be a soldier. They’d taken half a glance at his skinny arms and how many teeth he had- all of them, which he was proud of- and told him to get fitted for armour and find himself a sword. He was needed at Riverrun, they said. _Needed_ , that was the very word they’d used. It made him feel strong and lordly, even though he was only Ondrew of Flea Bottom, with not even another name to call his own.

Then he was Ondrew, sworn to House Lannister. And he was needed at Riverrun. Jaime Lannister was at Riverrun, and that seemed like fine enough of a reason to strap a sword to his hip and fall in line with the raw foot soldiers they were sending north. In short enough order he’d gotten blisters from his new boots, wide as his palm, which burst and bled and hardened into callouses; then the fleshiness of three bowls of brown a day had left him, eaten away by what little hard bread and cheese was given him during a day’s march. He grew lean and hard as a bow, and when he caught sight of himself- rare as that was, perhaps only in a still river when they passed over the bridge- he looked gaunt and manly in a way the boy from Flea Bottom had never been. A Lannister man. And he was proud of that.

Now his manliness had turned to piss and ran down his leg. The inner thigh of his trousers clung to his flesh and scratched. The Brotherhood had set upon them in the night- sudden, silent, so swiftly they’d cut his captain’s throat and slaughtered half their men before he’d even gotten his sword from its scabbard. The edge was blunt, his hands untrained. He saw three men die, a fourth consumed by torchfire, before he took a blade to the back of the knee and fell heavy. Over him had stood a beast. Or a man. In the dark it was impossible to tell. The light came from the burning man, who screamed like a wounded animal and ran, casting grotesque shadows. The beast’s face looked a ruin of curdled flesh. It looked at him, and it choked out something like laughter.

The beast seemed to be their leader. It walked on two legs, so perhaps it was a man. In Flea Bottom they said in the north there were men who walked in animal skins, even the Stark girl, who’d turned into a wolf to escape the city after killing King Joffrey at his own wedding. But wolves had paws and walked on four legs, and this had arms and hands which held a greatsword, and a man’s face turned terrible in the firelight. A comb of dark hair, stringy with grease, covered half of his face. In place of armour it wore a mess of boiled leather and mail, and the greatsword it carried was cruel-bladed and double-handed.

In the light cast by the burning body, now prostrate under the trees, he’d made them line up the handful who survived and asked if they’d renounce the Lannisters and be spared. Those who refused would be killed. He liked them better dead, Ondrew thought. Better to die quiet than lay moaning and crying for the gods like the wounded were. Men in dark cloaks went among the dying, giving them the gift of mercy. When all the groans and weeping stopped, he suddenly wasn’t sure whether he preferred silence after all.

“How many?” A man in a yellow cloak, wearing a helm like that of a snarling dog, stood two heads below the beast and looked up at him with a leery grin.

“A dozen, maybe less,” the larger one rasped. “They won’t buck their vows.”

“We need living men, not dead ones.”

“You don’t think I know that? Better dead men than fucking turncoats.” The beast jerked the point of his greatsword at him. “That one next.”

It was his blubbering, not his bravery, that had made them spare him. 

“P-P-Please. Don’t hurt me. I’m begging you- I’ll do anything.”

“By the gods, have they all been like that?”

“This one’s green. The rest weren’t.”

“Stand him up.” The yellow-cloaked man gestured with his fist. Ondrew was caught by the arms and pulled half to his feet. His wounded leg screamed in pain.

“What’s your name?” asked the man. He had an easy kind of voice, that might have been used for telling stories in kinder places.

“O-Ondrew, ser.”

The beast gave another coarse, awful laugh.

“We none of us are knights, boy. It’s a brotherhood. No banners. Get that through your thick fucking skull.”

The cloaked man grins again. “Ondrew, where have you come from?”

“Flea Bottom, s-. In King’s Landing.”

“And how old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

“You’re going to Riverrun, yes? To assist Jaime Lannister.”

“Y-Yes.” The tears welled thick in his throat again. “P-Please don’t kill me, I’ll do anything, I’ll renounce the L-Lannisters- I don’t care for them, never ‘ave, just wanted to see the country-”

The cloaked man turns to the beast. Who stood, leering and terrible.

“Well, he’s begged mercy.”

“What’s mercy, then? A knife to the throat’s mercy.”

“You can’t kill a man begging mercy. You know what we do with those.”

The beast smiled. A terrible smile.

“Take this one to _her_ , then. And let her deal with him.”

So they had brought him before her. And she had declared he would hang for the lion wrought crudely on his breast.

Now. Here. The sun near rising. A grey glow behind the trees, clouds fat with something impending. Said they’d wait for him to see dawn before he died. A last dawn. Now he could see faces, distinguish features. The beast was a man after all. Half his faced a scorched ruin that showed bone. 

Gasps out, “You- you’re the Hound.”

He leans on his greatsword, the point stuck in the earth. “The Hound is dead.”

“Not many men who’ve got a face like that.” The yellow-cloaked man seems to be enjoying the whole thing, with grinning eyes that would spite the devil. Propped on the crown of his head- a helm wrought like a snarling dog. “Aye, like as not there’s only one.”

The burnt beast scowls at him.

His toes set to the edge of a stone, a rope hung round his skinny throat. Had put him up there because she had told them to. Even still gasps out, “The Hound.”

“No.” The man turns, looks, and spits. “Sandor fucking Clegane.”

The yellow-cloaked man turns suddenly. 

“She’s coming.”

The hiss of the wind. Or of her breathing. Slowly, she comes from beneath the trees. There is a an old man at her left, lean and hard as iron, with a frowst of reddish hair. The hood of her cloak obscures her face, but her hands fill him with a fear as thick and twisting as a mess of snakes. Small, white hands, the flesh the colour of dead things, maggots, rotting flesh. Can see the scars from here, a dark slashmark. 

She comes to stand at his feet and does not look at him. Lifts one of her terrible hands to her throat. The noise she makes is raw and it rattles like death itself.

“She sentences you to die,” says the red haired man. “She will let no one sworn to the Lannisters live.”

Weeps out, “I-I’ve never hurt anyone.”

The woman rattles at him. 

The red haired man’s mouth twitches beneath his beard. 

“She says, I, Catelyn of House Stark, Lady of Winterfell, sentences you to die.”

“L-Lady C-C-Catelyn is d-d-dead.”

“It’s a new fucking world you’re living in, boy,” snarls Sandor Clegane. “The dead walk. Haven’t you heard?”

The woman lifts her hands to the hood of her cloak. Slowly, slowly, pushes it back. Her face is the last thing he sees when the yellow-cloaked man kicks him free from his stone and sets him choking. Sees the frost of white, brittle hair, falling over her shoulders. The deadish pallor of her flesh. The rake-marks in her cheek cut to the teeth. Last of all, sees her eyes. Blue, terrible, hard. Full of unnameable things. Full of unspeakable hatred. 

When she finally looks at him, he chokes on his own scream.

They leave the body hanging as a warning. Later, when the snow comes, it leaves streaks like white blood on the crimson of his borrowed leather. By then the Brotherhood is twenty miles to the north, the sound of their horses hooves muffled by the snow that already covers the ground and the shoulders of their cloaks. Lemoncloak, called Lem, reins up his shaggy garron beside Sandor Clegane’s heavy black charger.

“Clegane.”

“What do you want?”

As is her wont, his wont, he answers a question with a question, easy and light as if he doesn’t care. 

“What will happen when we reach Winterfell?” 

“Fuck if I know.”

The truth of it is, he hasn’t thought about it- not much- because at the last village they’d heard that Lady Sansa, with the might of the Vale and her bastard brother, had taken Winterfell for the Starks again and killed her Bolton husband. That part had sounded true enough. The next part, that she transformed to a wolf by night and ripped the Bolton bastard’s throat out with her teeth, sound less likely. _Not a wolf, you dumb cunts. A bird. A little bird, grown claws._ And after that thought, had subdued the rest.

Lem is insistent. “You think she’s going for her daughters, or to fight for the dawn? Or for that boy they’re calling king now. Ned Stark’s bastard.”

“I reckon I don’t give a rat’s arse.”

“Come on, Clegane-” 

Snaps, “You know as well as I do there’s a war coming. The Starks have Winterfell again. The Lannister bitch rules in King’s Landing. And they say the Golden Company’s captured Dragonstone now for some dragon cunt. And the fucking dead men beyond the wall. ”

“You’ve seen the flames, same as I have. And Thoros doesn’t let any of us forget it.” 

“Who’s going to fight the dead, then? You and me and a horde of filthy bloody free riders, led by a woman come back from the dead? She doesn’t want Winterfell. Fuck knows if she wants to fight the dead. She wants fucking vengence.”

Lem says nothing to this.

Mutters to himself, “I know a thing or two about vengeance.” 

And canters away from her. Aye, he knew about vengeance. Knew there was no use seeking it for himself. Knew it would kill him in the end, and he didn’t fancy dying, not yet. If vengeance was all he knew then he guessed he’d take revenge for those as couldn’t find it for themselves. The Stark girls, for a start. Their mother. He’d seen her body flung to the river, trailing blood in the water. And he’d seen her walking again too. If vengeance was all he knew, might as well follow the most vengeful bitch in the Seven Kingdoms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this prologue is roughly dated around mid-season six. sandor leaves the quiet isle of his own volition and joins the brotherhood without banners as they are in affc, led by a reanimated catelyn stark. the battle of the bastards happened as it does in the show, and jon snow is king in the north. timelines will jump around a bit, as the prologues are mainly to establish the book elements completely removed from the show. the bulk of this fic will basically be s7/s8 as they might have been.
> 
> YES....these are rushed. but they're just prologue chapters to establish exactly what kind of universe we're dealing with. bear with me, all will be explained and revealed.


	2. Prologue II: Meereen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> daenerys targaryen gains allies.

He had been old enough to know death when it came for his mother. Old enough too that he could still recall the scent of her hands and her hair, the caress of her arms when she held him. _I am the last dragon, for I am the last one who remembers._

The scent of burning flesh hung in the halls of the Red Keep when his father burned the Hand. It had frightened him. Made him hurry away from it, breaking into a run that tore the breath from his body and made his legs ache. Knew the way to his mother’s chambers blindfolded, really. Could have found her even if he was blind or deaf. She combed sweet oils into her hair to make the silver curls gleam, and touched sweet perfumes from Lys and Myr to her wrists and the back of her neck. Kept her clothes in chests of sweet pine and cedar. She smelled of growing things. And he loved her. Jaime Lannister had been posted outside of her door that night, in his white and silver scales, the heavy white cloak. Hadn’t thought him to be a killer, not in those days.

“I want to see mama.”

“Not now, my lord.” Wouldn’t look at him. Those green eyes roving all around the hall but never falling on the boy prince who stood in front of him. “Forgive me.”

“I want to see mama.” With some urgency. The need of her like a scratch in his throat, in the middle of his back. The smell was awful. He needed her sweetness. The smell of honeysuckle, cedar, perfumes. “Let me see my mama, or I cut off your head!”

“My lord-”

Then, like a song: “Ser Jaime. Bring my son to me.”

“As my lady commands.”

Rested gently a mailed hand on the prince’s shoulder, ushering him gently through the door into the queen’s chambers. It does not smell of burning flesh here. Only sweet things that bloom. And something else. The dusky scent of his father, he thinks. The sheets of her bed are in disarray, she wears only a dressing gown of soft purple, diaphanous and thin. Her silvery hair over one shoulder. When she turns to look at him, he sees the shine of a new bruise on her cheek. Beneath the thin fabric of her gown, a half-moon shape on her shoulder, raw, like a bite mark.

“My little prince. Come to me.”

Opens her arms to him. He nestles himself in her lap, with his cheek to her soft breast, to shut his eyes and breathe. When she holds him, the rest of the world does not matter. There is nothing beyond her embrace but a world he cannot see or understand. When his father rages she wraps soft silk around his eyes and plays blind man’s bluff. “Listen to my voice, little prince,” she says. “I am here.”

Hears the rattle of Ser Jaime’s mailed fist. In time it will drive a sword in his father’s heart, to the hilt. In time he will forget his pathways through the Red Keep, the colour of the curtains that drifted on the summer wind, the pattern of tiles, the taste of rich food. Will forget the thrum of the city below the Keep. Forget the sound of his father’s laugh. Forget his mother’s smile. Forget her laugh. Will remember, instead, the sound of her weeping for her dead son. The way the name _Rhaegar_ fell like broken glass from her lips. The taut flesh of her pregnant belly.

He will remember the touch of her hands smooth his silver hair beneath the crown. She had set the crown with jewels herself, cutting pearls from the neck of her gowns, cracking opals and rubies from the last of her jewelry. Melted her bracelets and cast it into a golden crown. Her voice rang through Dragonstone, thorugh the Great Hall that had been built to resemble a dragon on it’s belly. _They will force a dragon to it’s knees for the pleasure of seeing it crawl._ How cold it was. How he shivered on the seat where his mother placed him.

“You are the true king of Westeros,” she told him. “You are His Grace, Viserys of House Targaryen, Third of his Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, the Last Dragon of Valyria.” And she bowed to him there, helped to her knees by what handmaids had been left to her. Her belly swayed. “Remember who you are, Viserys. You are a dragon. The last dragon. The world will tremble at your voice.”

Yes, he remembers. 

“It was not so long ago that the Blackfyre pretends tried to take your throne from you, my king,” she told him. “And all the men of their house are dead now. The dragon triumphs in the end. Remember, my son.”

Remember. Remember the scent of blood and the roar of the storm. _Daenerys Stormborn_ , they named the girl who took his mother from him. Gods, how his mother had screamed. Willem Darry took all the way to the top of the Stone Drum, but even here- where the wind screamed and howled among the parapets- they could still hear Rhaella cry as she bled. 

“Whatever happens, you won’t be alone, my prince.” That was Ser Willem’s promise. “I will protect you and the little one. I promise.”

He did hate the sight of her, the little girl. Pinched her arms and legs just to hear her shriek, but it was not as hard as she had made Rhaella scream. “She killed mother,” he told Ser Willem, but was soothed quietly with a shake of the knight’s head.

“No, Your Grace. It was grief that killed your mother.”

When he sold his crown, he kissed the cool metal, the last of Rhaella’s pearls, while the smith laughed at him. In the streets they begged for bread, and the scum of Essos mocked them for their dirty silver hair. “Here’s a dragon for the little prince!” Dangling gold in front of his starving eyes, laughing when he lunged and fell in the streaming gutter. Oh, he remembered. 

“When I am king, I will knock this whole city to dust.” Huddling together, barefoot and hungry. “I promise, Dany, you will live to see the dragon feared again.”

She nodded mutely. 

“There will always be pretends. Like the Blackfyres. They said they deserved the throne, not us, but they were only liars and bastards, and they are all dead now. But I am alive, Dany. The dragon cannot be killed by rats.”

She remembers that. And remembers giving him his crown again. Remembers how he pinched and hit and mocked her. Remembers the sound of his death. A dragon cannot be killed by a man. Only a dragon can go unburnt. And that is she. Stormborn. Unburnt. Mother of dragons. A dragon herself.

Night is falling violet over the city when the last of her supplicants is brought into the hall of the Great Pyramid. The bench is low and hard, her body aches from sitting. “Missandei, bring us wine,” she says, quietly, to the girl at her side. 

“As you wish, Your Grace.” Disappearing from the room with a nod of her head.

She calls out, “Lord Tyrion. Bid them come forward.”

They cut a strange group, under heavy guard from her Unsullied, led by the eunuch Varys Lean, hard, dirty with the grime of the road, wrapped in boiled leather and tattered mail and travel-stained cloaks. Both of them blue-haired, though where one is lean as a blade, the other is heavy-set with muscle. 

“Your Grace.” Lord Tyrion raises his voice so that it echoes through her chambers. “May I present Griff, leader of the Golden Company, and his son.” His eyebrows quirk together. “Ah. _Young_ Griff.”

Her gaze lifts to Tyrion, seated below her, and then to the two Griffs. When her eyes fall on them the larger of the two drops to one knee, head bowed low with respect. The other, the younger one, lifts his eyes to her own. And _grins_ at her. It is so unexpected- there are not many men brave or stupid enough to grin at their queen. It is a devious, twisting, pleasant grin. 

The older Griff hisses something at him, and he sinks into a bow. Still grinning.

She calls out to them. “Welcome, Griff. And Griff the younger.”

“Your Grace.” The older Griff rises, his hand on his breast and his gaze lowered respectfully. “We have travelled long to reach you this night. I and my- my son and I extend our deepest gratitude to you for agreeing to see us despite the hour.”

“Lord Tyrion said you had travelled a long distance.”

“Yes, my lady. From Westeros.”

 _Westeros. Home._ “And why have you travelled so far, Griff?”

“To see the Targaryen queen with our own eyes, Your Grace. And to pledge the strength of our Golden Company to your service.”

“How very generous of you. I did not think the Golden Company pledged themselves to anyone.”

“Not to any man,” says the younger Griff. Again, he looks at her. He has a deep, lazy gaze, and a fall of blue hair covers on eye. “To a dragon.”

“They will honour their true queen, then.”

“Yes.”

Missandei returns, with a decanter of wine and two silver goblets. Dany thanks her, takes a small sip of wine. “When I return to my kingdom, I will be grateful for your support.”

“Forgive me, my lady,” says Lord Varys. “I fear we have not been entirely truthful thus far.”

Her back aches. _Are all thrones this unkind?_ “What do you mean, Lord Varys?”

“Griff is not the true name of our two visitors.”

“It is true, Your Grace. We have been in hiding these fifteen years, the boy and I. My true name is Jon Connington.”

The wine, in her cup, tilts towards her heart. She slowly sets the goblet on the bench beside her. “My brother Rhaegar’s knight.”

“The very same. I have never stopped being loyal to your family, Your Grace. I loved your brother. All these years, I have waited for the day the Targaryens would take your throne back. The Golden Company holds Dragonstone, your birthplace, on our behalf. They await only our return.”

She laughs at this bitterly. “ _Our_ return, ser? I do not know you.”

“I can vouch for him, my lady,” says Lord Varys. “He is no pretender. He is your father’s knight. And what he says to you this night, there is no word of a lie in it. I promise you that.”

She swallows. “Well, I have not kept myself a secret. Why come only now?” Her hands are shaking. She knots them in the heavy fabric of her white gown. Suddenly, even the oppressive heat of Meereen is not enough for her.

“There is another, my lady.”

She does not see Young Griff is at the foot of her throne, his foot on the very step, until that moment. And he is looking at her, with those eyes. With that same smile.

He says, “Daenerys,” and her heart twists.

She asks, “Who are you?” 

“My name is not Young Griff,” says the boy. “My father named me Aegon.”

“Aegon is dead. The Lannisters killed him.” He must not see her tremble. _I am the blood of the dragon,_ her heart whispers.

“Your Grace,” says Varys, “the Lannisters, like all men, lie.”

“Daenerys,” says the boy again, and then he is at her feet, kneeling, before her Unsullied can stop him, and when they move to drive their spears into his narrow back she drives them back to a sharp word, “Umbagon!”

His hands are long-fingered, pale, the nails dirty with travel. Her own hands once looked like that. Once she was sold like a horse to a brute. Once she starved in the Great Grass Sea. She lifts his hands in her own and lowers her head to his blue, blue hair. His face is narrow, with high-cheekbones. He looks almost like Viserys.

“Son of my brother.”

“My father’s sister,” he says, and laughs. “Queen Daenerys. Conquer a kingdom with me.”

She touches his cheek, and his own fingers lift to brush the line of her jaw with a kind of sweet reverence. She smiles.

When they drink, to victory, to the last Targaryens, to the five dragons left in all the world, he shares her goblet of wine. With shared wine on her tongue, she listens to the night echo with dragonsong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is meant to take place roughly around the same point as the end of season 6, but rather than strike off on her own for westeros, dragonstone has already been taken by YG/the golden company as in the books. future POV chapters will flesh out the allies for this team a little better- this is just to establish that YG/Aegon is part of her storyline.


	3. THE FREY BOY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> winter comes to the neck. lady stoneheart changes her mind.

In the river above the Twins, a Frey boy- one of a dozen or one of fifty, one of a hundred more likely- kneels on the bank to splash frigid water over his bare, skinny arms. It is only just past dawn. Birds sing. The sky translucent beneath banked clouds threatening snow. The world is quiet and still; even the horse, a shaggy dappled-grey gelding nicked from the stable at the Twins, has lowered his head and stands very still. Likes this time of day. Has taken him a lifetime to appreciate stillness, but has grown old enough now to know that it doesn’t come so very often. So it has to be enjoyed.

The gelding lifts it’s head with a sudden snort. Perhaps it is the blood in the water- the boy has been washing it from his hands. Had ridden from the Twins, quick as a snake, before anyone knew what had happened in the hall. Not the first time there’d been a massacre there, truly. And so much the better. Turns over his shoulder and tuts at the horse. Has it’s ear pricked towards the woods, shifts nervously on the spot.

“What do you hear, then?”

Snorts through flared nostrils, a sudden ring of frightened white around the eyes. Rises from the river bank, rolling his sleeves back over wet arms. Murmurs soft platitudes, running wet hands over the horse’s shaggy coat- new and thick for winter- leave damp streaks. _Look with your eyes._ The birds have gone silent, and a stupid boy he is for not noticing sooner. Deep in the woods, footsteps. Heavy but fast, coming from the southwest. And more footsteps from the north. Surrounded. Seven hells. 

His hand on the hilt of his sword before he is no longer alone, and when the first man breaks through the woods onto the riverbank the narrow sword flashes once and opens his throat. Swift as a deer. A spattered scream through severed flesh. Spins low, cuts another man across the knees and a third through the stomach. Curves like a bowstring through the air. Makes the drive the point of his sword through a mailed breast, and a great beast of a hand catches the blade between thumb and palm. Suddenly finds his neck caught in a chokehold.

“Seems I’ve seen that fucking sword before,” says the man. Snatches the sword from the Frey boy’s grasp. In the gloom of morning, a fearsome sight. A fall of black hair over half his face- the burn half. Ugly armour that ill-fits his massive form. If the Frey boy gives an indication of knowing the man and the burn on his face he doesn’t betray it. Sandor Clegane looks down at him. Something like a smile or a sneer.

“Where’d you find this, then?”

“Nowhere,” the boy chokes out.

“Don’t lie to me, little shit. Where’d you get this?”

“My brother gave it to me.” Thrashing like a wet cat.

“Aye? And where’d your cunt brother get it?” Holds the boy’s head under his arm, braced against his massive side. “Answer me!”

“Get off me!”

“Oi! You in the habit of choking little boys, Clegane?” A man in a yellow cloak. Braces both hands on his back and stretches, as if newly awake. 

“This one’s got a sword that doesn’t belong to it,” Sandor Clegane snarls at him. “I know this sword. It’s got some stupid fucking name. It belongs to Arya Stark.”

“Arya Stark is dead, Clegane.”

“Like hell she is. You’ve never met that one.” Tosses the skinny blade to the man in the yellow cloak, then actually picks the boy up around the waist and puts him under his arm. The boy thrashes and shrieks.

“Let me down! Fucker! Shit!”

“You ought to be thanking me for not smashing your sorry skull,” Clegane growls at him. “There any others, Lem, lurking in the woods?”

“No. Just that one.” Lem jerks his bearded chin at the screaming boy. 

“Let her deal with him. And that sword.”

“She’ll see him hanged, sure as a dog shits.”

“Then let her.” Heaves the boy as if he were a sack of seed, ignores the struggle and flailing arms and knees. “Be quiet, boy, or I’ll smash your teeth in.”

“Shit!”

Does get a cuff on the head then, sharp and quick, but nowhere near his teeth. 

The man in the yellow cloak, with a smile twisted as thistles. “The lady’ll shut up him.”

Through woods still night-dark they carry the boy, the yellow-cloaked man leading the horse. In the gloom beneath the trees, another man, with a pale oval of a face framed by a frowst of gingery hair. 

“What’s this then?” 

“A Frey, by the look of it.” Lifts the boy’s head by the hair with his free hand. “Little shit’s got a sword that doesn’t belong to it.”

“What’s that, then?”

“Says it belongs to Arya Stark.” Lem lifts the sword for the gingery man’s consideration.

“I remember that girl.”

“You’re on her list, Thoros,” grunts Sandor. “If the sword’s here, she’ll not be far after it. Better watch your throat.”

“Only the Lord of Light can decide when it is my time to die,” says Thoros, pleasantly. 

Their camp is hardly a camp, only a cooling fire in a ring of stones and a handful of horses, their saddles arrayed on the ground in place of cots or pillows. A ragged bunch, in tattered cloaks and dirty surcoats and boots much mended. Sandor Clegane sets the Frey boy on his feet. His massive hand on the boy’s small shoulder good as a manacle. 

Snarls, “You’re about to meet someone, boy. Might be you recognize her throat.”

“Bugger you!”

“Best you don’t talk like that ‘round her. She won’t like that, not from a little Frey brat.”

Sunlight now beginning to thinly light the wood, slanted rays through the trees. Steers the boy across the camp, trailing a crowd, to the far corner. Three steps arrayed beneath the low branches of an ancient oak, half naked, and half-dyed with autumn flowers. The boy sees the nooses hanging and flinches hard. Might have swooned low if not for the hand of Sandor Clegane. 

Doesn’t see the cloaked figure until it moves- the dark cloak hides among the trees, even in the light, and it is only when the wool shifts that the boy notices suddenly the low, regular rattle emanating from within its heavy folds.

“My lady,” calls Sandor gruffly. “We found this one by the river.”

Thoros, smirking, goes to stand next to the hooded woman. Her cloak obscures her face. The hand, wrapped in dark rags, is clutched at her throat. The rattling is louder now- a deep, throaty hiss, enough to make the blood run chill. 

“She asks your name, boy,” says Thoros. 

The boy, not flinching. Too stupid to be scared. “Walder Rivers.”

The woman rattles at him.

“She has no love for bastards,” says Sandor, shoving the boy’s shoulder. He stumbles, falls to his knees in the wet deadfall. “Even less for Frey bastards.”

“My lady says you will hang for the crimes committed against the Starks.”

“Wasn’t me! I weren’t part o’ any of that!”

Rattles. Thoros, tugging thoughtfully on his beard: “She says that by blood you are guilty, and by blood you must die.”

“The boy’s got a sword,” says Sandor. “I know the blade, I’ve seen it. That’s Arya Stark sword. Show her, Lem.”

Lem produces the narrow blade. Even in the muted light of morning it’s sharpness is apparent; it’s grace is that which only a castle-forged sword could have. The woman runs the tips of her white fingers along the blade. Touches the hilt. Shifts her head as though she is looking at the boy, though within her hood her face is in deep shadow.

Rattles and groans.

“She says, she knows the mark of Mikken, the blacksmith of Winterfell. She believes you, Clegane.” Thoros nods at him. Sandor’s face is half sneering, half still. 

“Where did you get this, boy?”

“It was given to me,” he snaps. “By my brother.”

“And where’d he get it? Take it off a body? A little girl’s body?” Sandor demands.

“No!”

“Right then. To the bloody noose with you.” Sandor, hauling him up by the scruff of his jerkin. The boy thrashes and spits. When he looks again, the woman has pulled her hood from her face. A woman or a creature. Her face raked deep as if by claws, her throat a ragged slash of darkness. Might have been beautiful once, but there is no beauty left. Only hatred, in the ice blue eyes. Mother’s eyes.

Gasps, “Wait,” but they are already binding his hands and heaving him onto the stump, fitting the scratchy rope around his skinny throat. Screams again, “Wait!”

The woman is rattling, rattling. And Thoros says, “It is the will of the Lord of Light.”

“It’s the will of her, anyway.”

“They killed her son. They killed her.”

“Let Lady Catelyn have her vengeance.”

“Blood for blood.”

“ _Mother_.”

Lem stops with his foot on the stump. The woman’s eyes, pale and cruel, lift to the boy’s face.

He says, “Mother.” Hot tears in his eyes which do not fall.

Sandor snaps, “Get him down from there.”

“You don’t give-”

“I said, get him down!” Jerks the noose away, slashes the rope from the boy’s hands. Keeps a chokehold on the back of his shirt. 

The boy’s hands are at his throat. Under his chin. His face lifts like an old shirt. Falls in a fleshy heap. Arya Stark stands with two streaks of wet, shining tears.

“Mother.”

“Fucking hells,” says Sandor.

 _Fear cuts deeper than swords_. They are looking at her. No one touches her. No one speaks. Catelyn Stark’s pale, pale eyes fix on her unwavering and cold.

“Mother. It’s me. It’s Arya.” Isn’t weeping. Doesn’t weep these days, though she can’t control the tears. “It’s your Arya.”

Steps off the stump where they might have hung her and onto the soft earth, stumbles, nearly falls. Sandor catches her arm, sets her upright. She doesn’t shake him off. Doesn’t snarl at him. She stands in front of the woman who might have been her mother. Trembling. She is not afraid to look at Catelyn Stark.

Her mother looks at her without speaking. Without blinking. Lifts one pale, dry, scarred hand. Touches Arya Stark’s pale cheek.

She does weep then. The strange heaving, the wind from the cut in Catelyn Stark’s neck, might be weeping too. The touch of her hand is cold as ice on Arya’s cheek.

When they are twenty miles from the Twins and nearly in the real north, she reins her little shaggy grey next to Sandor’s black charger. There are words to be had. Her mother does not speak- she knows her, yes, and that is enough, and sometimes if there are too many things to say there are not enough words to say them. Not so with Sandor Clegane. She rides so her sword at her hip is just at his calf.

“I thought you were dead,” she says to him.

He grunts. “I’m not. No thanks to you.”

“Did Thoros bring you back too, then?”

“No. Different gods did that. And what about you? That was a fine bloody trick.”

She half smiles, staring at the road ahead of them. “I learned some things.”

“Seems we all have.”

They ride in silence for a moment. Then Arya asks, “My mother. That’s her, isn’t it?”

“Who the fuck else would it be? Aye, that’s your mother.”

“I...I don’t understand.” The truth is, she is afraid to ask, but she is Arya Stark of Winterfell. She is Cat of the canals and Walder Frey and Walder Rivers and no one and the Braavosi sea captain whose ship she’d captained and whoever else she wants to be. If she is afraid, she doesn’t recognize the taste anymore.

“It was that man. Beric Dandarrion. Found her below the Twins not long after….after all that. He died for her. One last time to bring her back. Thoros told me, when I joined the Brotherhood.”

“Beric is dead?”

“Aye, girl. And your mother’s alive. As much as she can be. They…” Sees his hands tighten around his horse’s reins, the heavy cords of sinew in his fingers white against his knuckles. “Her throat was cut. She can’t speak, so Thoros speaks for her. Another one of his funny tricks.”

Sandor snorts. “How’ll you kill Thoros of Myr when he’s the only one who can understand her?” 

“You were on my list too. I didn’t kill you.” 

“No, girl. You didn’t.” 

When she looks at him, his face twists into something like a smile. Perhaps her prayers have been answered by a different god. 

Later, they pass through a tiny settlement- hardly a village, only a few houses clustered around a tavern with a thatched roof, surrounded by black bog and snarled forest. She goes with Lem into the tavern to buy beer and bread for the Brotherhood, for whether they are loved or feared here it only means they are given what they need by those who have it, in exchange for the promise of protection. Lem is known by the tavern keeper, who smacks toothless gums in a wry smile when he sees them. 

"Who's this, then?" 

"A new recruit." 

"You heard what happened at the Twins, then? Was that your doing?" 

"Wasn't our doing." Lem puts loaves of bread into the satchel under his cloak. "What happened?" 

"Someone's killed Lord Frey, and all his sons it seems. Left only his latest little wife behind." 

Arya averts her eyes to the floor. 

"Oh?" Lem is nonplussed. "Now that's a fine tale." 

"Oh, aye. They say it was revenge for the Starks." 

Lem hands off two clay kegs of ale to Arya, waiting silently next to him. "Well, all the smallfolk say winter's coming." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is dialogue heavy, and this- along with the next few chapters- will be mainly plot points and the attempt to cover a good bit of time before getting to the main bulk of the planned narrative. constructive criticism is of course appreciated x


	4. DAENERYS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> daenerys begins going home. the board is set.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is super dialogue heavy again, mainly getting everything in place for the bulk of the action. see notes at the end for a translation of daenerys' speech in valyrian and for more (spoilery) notes.

She was beautiful and terrible in the manner of all women, and like all women wore an armour soft and strong, stronger than any steel plate or boiled lather or oiled mail. And men quailed in her shadow. She walked among her people touching hands as they made their way to the sea. For once, there was no rage to be tempered, no riots to quell. Only the soft murmur of her people’s voices, the shuffle of sandalled feet. And the harder noises of the wars to come. Behind her, the rhythmic march of her Unsullied. Above her, the heave of her dragons’ wings. Their beautiful scream.

Though she makes her way to the harbour on foot, Aegon and Jon Connington are ahorse- massive chargers, true warhorses, silky black and burnished chestnut. “Targaryen colours,” Aegon had said, with that coy smirk of his. 

“A Targaryen rides dragons,” she told him, rather pointedly.

“There will be time enough for dragonriding. Let your people look upon us one last time before you gain back your throne.”

So they had gone on foot through the pale streets of Meereen, beneath a blazing sun that baked her bare arms and the top of her head. She wears silks of black and red, a silver chain at her throat wrought cunningly like a two-headed dragon. When she looks to the sky, her children cut black lace from the infinite blue with their wings.

_When my feet touch the earth next, I shall be home._

Their royal guard consists of Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Jon Connington, and Grey Worm. It had been with a heavy heart that she was forced to part with one of her advisors, to leave them behind to rule Meereen and the Free Cities in her stead. In the end, she had chosen Galazza Galare, high priestess of the Ghiscari Temple, and Daario Naharis to be her captain of guard.

Glazza had demured at the offer, touching her throat soft over the folds of her green silk veil. “I am a high priestess, my lady. My place is in the temple.”

“There is no other,” she had said, touching the woman’s soft, wrinkled hands. “They will listen to you, trust you. My advisors are of Westeros, and they will not know how to appease the people of the Free Cities. Name another high priestess in your stead, and when I come into my throne, I will name you Regent of Essos.”

“You speak truly.” Galazza tilted her head and studied her. “The people of Meereen will revolt against any Westerosi who rules in your absence.”

“Help me, Galazza. Help me take back what is mine by rights.”

In the end, Galazza had agreed, albeit reluctantly. Took up residence in the Great Pyramid, beneath the harpy, to rule in the stead of Queen Daenerys. It had been Daario who fussed, his mouth drawing up tight and nervous beneath his beard when she told him what he intended.

“So you will leave the Second Sons behind?”

“To keep the peace, yes. I trust you, Daario.”

He turned away from her, looking out over the city, at the purple sky that pulled every soul beneath it into the shade of night. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but it feels as if you cast us off for the Golden Company.”

“He is my family.” She laid her hand on Daario’s gauntlet, making him turn to her. 

Bitterly, without meeting her eyes. “It is said the Targaryens wed sister to brother, to keep their blood pure.”

The thought has occurred to her more than once, though she cannot yet decide what she feels for it. _I am the blood of the dragon. But I am not the dragons who came before me._

“Whatever I must do to gain back my home, I will do it.”

“Your home, and Griff’s.”

_His name is Aegon. Son of Rhaegar Targaryen. Son of my brother._ “It is _our_ home we must regain. You, Daario, must keep the queen’s peace here.”

He said, “I love you,” and she smiled at him, laying her hand on his cheek.

“Then out of your love for me, stay.”

His kiss on her mouth had been wine-sweet and full of imperishable longing, but she had left him all the same. He had not come to see her sail for home.

In her her retinue: Missandei, Lord Tyrion, and Varys. She thought, for one raw moment, of Jorah Mormont. Had told him not to return until he had been healed of his greyscale.. How he would have wished to be here with her, to see this day. Perhaps he would hear of it, wherever he was. Perhaps he was dead. _If I look back, I am lost._

Euron Greyjoy and Paxter Redwyne are waiting for her on her flagship. Euron’s blue half-smile is easy, almost flirtatious; one eye is bright blue, the other deep black. He is a raw-faced, disarming sort of man, unpredictable as the sea itself, wearing salt-stained leathers and a half-sneering grin. Pax Redwyne is a very different sort of man- nearly bald but for a frowst of rust-orange hair, thin and stooping. Where Euron wears a menacing gold kraken of tarnished gold thread, Paxter wears a cluster of grapes wrought in amethyst. They are as different as men can be, and both sworn to her- as solid allies as she could hope for, with a fleet of a hundred ships.

Euron looks on mutely when Aegon rides his black charger up the gangplank, right onto the ship’s deck. “Mind the beast,” he says.

“Mind your tongue, pirate.” Aegon dismounts swiftly.

Euron runs his tongue across his teeth, eyeing the boy up and down, before turning to Daenerys. He had sworn fealty to Aegon, but seemed to like Daenerys far better, perhaps because she spoke to him as the king as whom he had styled himself. He tilted his head in what might have been a bow and met her gaze. 

“Your fleet has been waiting, Your Grace. The winds are favourable.”

“The last of your Unsullied boarded not half an hour ago,” Paxter Redwyne reports. “We shall sail when you give us word.”

“Thank you, my lords.”

Turns to look at Aegon. She had set her handmaids to the task of washing the blue dye from his hair, and now it shines as pale silver as her own, thick and heavy against his brow. The same narrow chin and high cheekbones as Viserys, but with none of the cruelty in his eyes. He lays his hand in the small of her back, tenderly, and grins down at her. Thinks, he is tall. Rhaegar was said to be tall.

He tells her through his smile, “Today is the first day of the new reign of Aegon and Daenerys Targaryen.”

They watch her dragons wheel overhead, the sunlight flashing off their scales. With Aegon at her side, she walks to the side of her ship and looks out of the crowd gathered to watch her sail for home.

Calls: “Lēkia se mandia hen Dāez Oktion!” 

Their roar in response makes her skin shiver.

“Iksan Daenērys Jelmāzmo hen Targārien Lentor! Kesīr iksis se tresy hen ñuha lēkia Rhāegār, Aegon hen Targārien Lentor! īlon iōragon gō ao sir se beg aōha jorrāelagon!”

She feels Aegon’s arm tighten around her waist. The warmth of his nearness a strange comfort. She has always stood alone. If not alone, then she has been talked over, ignored, bruised, sold, beaten, belittled. It is good to not be alone, she thinks.

“Jī sir naejot cross se embar naejot Vesteros, se gūrogon arlī skoros iksis īlvon! Aomagon daor nārhēdegon nyke, ñuha lēkia se mandia. Gaomagon daor nārhēdegon se ondos bona daerēdas ao, lēkia se mandia. Gaomagon daor ivestragī se belma nektogon va aōha iroish arlī! iksā dāez vali se ābrar. Glaesagon dāez!”

(Brothers and sisters of the Free Cities! I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. Here is the son of my brother Rhaegar, Aegon of House Targaryen. We stand before you now, and beg your love. We go now to cross the sea to Westeros, to take back what is ours. Do not forget me, my brothers and sisters. Do not forget the hand that freed you, brothers and sisters. Do not let the chains [cut on] tighten around your throats again! You are free men and women. Live free!)

Her people scream their love for her. Washes across her skin and her hear, warm as dragonfire. And, cutting across their voices, the cry of her dragons. She looks them, shading her eyes with her hand.

“They are your family now,” she says to Aegon. “As they have been mine, they will be yours.”

“Aegon Targaryen conquered Westeros with his sisters and three dragons. You honour me, Daenerys.”

“We will conquer it again.”

His smile as sharp and brilliant as the sun on her dragons’ scales. “I promise you.”

She turns to shout the command to sail to Euron Greyjoy and Paxter Redwyne. Sees, on the deck behind her, Lord Tyrion and Varys, her little queensguard in black armour with blood-red capes. 

“Are you ready, Your Grace?” calls Tyrion.

“Yes, Lord Tyrion. Command them to sail.”

Watches the sails of her fleet billow into the wind until the sea is thick with dragons. Thinks, for a moment, that it is the most beautiful sight she has ever seen.

Later, she dines with her advisors, Aegon, and her guard belowdeck. They drink Andalish sour and salt-baked fish, fresh-caught from the sea, broiled crab legs brought the shore, bitter greens, and roasted peppers with ginger and garlic. Aegon is fond of ginger.

“You’ll have to move quickly,” says Tyrion, cracking a crab leg with greased fingers. “My sister won’t take lightly to an army landing on her shore. As we speak she’ll be sending a few legions to harass your Golden Company.”

“Dragonstone is an ancient stronghold. It is not match for any siege, and the Lannisters will flee when they see our dragons.” Aegon pops a grape into his mouth and chews thoughtfully. “You seem afraid of this sister of yours.”

Tyrion blinks. “Not afraid. Cautious. Cersei is unpredictable.”

“She _is_ predictably vicious,” says Varys. “There is a chance you could lure her forces into the Stormlands and have them surrounded. The Reach has pledged their armies, which are ample, and our young Aegon has the loyalty of Dorne.”

“Yes, and my sister has King’s Landing. As long as she has that, all the skirmishes in the world won’t make much difference.”

“King’s Landing has been starved before,” says Ser Barristan. “We can starve it again.”

“You think Cersei cares a whit for starving smallfolk? She’d step over a hundred starving men to get a glass of wine.”

Aegon laughs.

“A woman after my own heart. Perhaps we’re going about this the wrong way.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Perhaps we should think of a marriage.”

Daenerys stares at him. “A _marriage_.”

“It isn’t a foolish idea. She has a twin, has she not? We might join our houses, you to her brother, I to her-”

“Aegon-” says Jon Connington.

Daenerys raises her voice, lifting slightly out of her seat. “Her brother _murdered _my father. Their father had your mother raped and tortured, and your sister- You cannot be serious. I will not be sold to my family’s killers.”__

__“It’s my family too. But we cannot bring them to justice until we have the throne.”_ _

__Varys runs his blunt fingers over his pale chins. “The people of Westeros have had enough of war, it is true...they might be more inclined to accept an alliance of marriage than more bloodshed.”_ _

__Daenerys draws herself up to her full height- a meagre height, it is true, but a dragon is still a dragon. Across the table she meets Missandei’s fearful gaze, and her heart fills with rage._ _

__“No. I will never agree to this.”_ _

__Aegon loafs at his ease, one leg flung over the arm of the chair, and studies her drolly. “It is easier to kill someone who trusts you than to kill a queen in a stronghold.”_ _

__“What you speak of goes against the gods.” Barristan looks aghast._ _

__Daenerys lifts her chin and stares. “I will not take back my throne with treachery.”_ _

__“My sister will never agree to it anyway,” says Lord Tyrion quickly. “She is too proud, and too smart.”_ _

__“Truly, I was in jest.” Aegon kicks his heel against his chair. “Sweet Daenerys, don’t be angry with me. It was only a thought. And a foolish one.”_ _

__Stiffly resumes her seat, her fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her palm. “I cannot suffer fools. Even my own kin. When my brother acted the fool, I gave him what he deserved.”_ _

__“I should never make you do anything you did not wish.”_ _

__“Any marriage is out of the question,” says Tyrion firmly. “With the Reach, Dorne, the queen’s Unsullied, the Golden Company, and the Greyjoy fleet, we have more than enough manpower to repulse an assault on Dragonstone, _and_ take King’s Landing.”_ _

__“And dragons,” adds Missandei. “A dragon can never marry a lion.”_ _

__“Wise words,” agrees Ser Barristan._ _

__“You forget, Lord Tyrion.” Jon Connington has taken no drink that night, only water in his goblet. Beneath the blue dye his hair is a dark red, pepper with grey, and his face is lined with time and sadness. She likes the old knight, and thinks he has trustworthy eyes, but he seems a little frightened of her. Perhaps she reminds him of Rhaegar. “The Dornish army and the Tyrells both have a whole country between them and Dragonstone. Surely Cersei Lannister will try to stop them, well before there’s any chance of trapping them against Dragonstone.”_ _

__“I have my ships.” Paxter Redwyne has stayed silent for much of the meal, only chewing and smiling, but now leans forward, tracing her dinner knife around her empty plate. “We can ferry their troops past King’s Landing, for the Lannisters have no fleet large enough to be a threat.”_ _

__“A good thought, but a foolish one,” says Lord Tyrion. “My sister likely already knows of our advance, and has secured a fleet of her own.”_ _

__“From whom?” asks Daenerys. “Surely she cannot build ships so quickly.”_ _

__“There are others in Westeros with ships, my lady,” says Varys._ _

__“Who would ally themselves with a tyrant?” She looks at him nonplussed. “Cersei Lannister destroyed half her city for revenge-”_ _

__“But she is still queen, and an unmarried queen without heirs,” says Aegon. “An unmarried queen will have suitors.”_ _

__“She is not the true queen.”_ _

__“No. But loyalty can be bought. And without money, it can be promised.”_ _

__She bristles slightly. It is Aegon who supplied the force at Dragonstone, but the fleet is hers- a raven sent to Olenna Tyrell had secured their alliance and the promise of revenge against Cersei Lannister. Paxter Redwyne is related by marriage to Olenna Tyrell, and sworn to the Reach; Euron Greyjoy had apparently been persuaded by the promise of dragons and the promise of aid in pressing his claim in the North as well as his home of Pyke. Yet it is Aegon who brought Dorne, through his mother, Elia Martell. Were a schism to occur between them, there would be manpower enough between them for a true war, and the thought chills her._ _

__When she looks at Aegon, there is a challenge in his eyes that if it another man would have enraged her. He forgets himself, she thinks. I have dragons, and he has only men._ _

___Yet he is the blood of the dragon, the same as I am._ “You are right, Aegon. But I am confident that when we regain our homeland, the people of Westeros will recognize their true queen. And their kin”_ _

__“Daenerys is right, Aegon.” Lord Tyrion straightens in his seat. “Suitors or no, ships or no, we have the advantage. Now, I propose we abandon war talk for a moment.” He raises his glass of wine. “To Aegon and Daenerys Targaryen, our dragons, and the new Targaryen dynasty.”_ _

__She keeps her eyes on her wine as she drinks, then begs her leave. On the deck of her ship she looks across the water at the glimmer of lanterns on the ships around her. Counts them- one, ten, twenty. The sky alive with stars. She searches for the shape of her dragons, and cannot see them. Only the soft whisper of the sea against the ship, like a mother brother. The sea is a womb. It will push her home. _Born of the storm, born of the water, born of the flame._ _ _

__When she turns to return below to her chambers, she sees Aegon standing in the doorway, silhouetted in torchlight._ _

__“Daenerys. I hope I didn’t offend you.”_ _

__“No.” She keeps her distance. She has learned well enough not to trust men._ _

__“You must forgive me,” he continues. “I...I have not had the same experiences as you. I do not know what it means to rule. I have been in hiding all my life, have fought quiet wars. The promise of what is to come excites me, and I forget myself. Not like you, Daenerys. You are a true dragon. Like my father.”_ _

__“Sweet Aegon.” She moves forward to take his hand in her own. He wears a ring on his index finger, heavy silver wrought like a dragon biting its own tail, and she runs her finger over its carved scales. “You will learn. I will teach you.”_ _

__He puts his other hand on top of hers, and smiles at her sweetly. "I expect you will, my queen. Teach me all you know._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translation of daenerys' speech:
> 
> "Brothers and sisters of the Free Cities! I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. Here is the son of my brother Rhaegar, Aegon of House Targaryen. We stand before you now, and beg your love. We go now to cross the sea to Westeros, to take back what is ours. Do not forget me, my brothers and sisters. Do not forget the hand that freed you, brothers and sisters. Do not let the chains [cut on] tighten around your throats again! You are free men and women. Live free!"
> 
> i changed dany's greyjoy ally to euron to be closer to the books, and kept his appearance book-accurate. pax redwyne and galazza galare were left out of the show, but they're interesting characters and i thought this made more sense. i'll cover the asha/theon duo in later chapters.


End file.
